I stitched an itch to my side. As far as surgeries go, I’m just barely scratching the surface.

He’s as tall as a tree, but he fights like a rose bush. What’s with all the scratching? I should cut him down in the name of romance.

She closes her eyes, and I can see the moisture. She’s deep-breathing again, and I notice her hands are clutched around the opposing wrists, nails digging in deep, hard, scratching. Pain to replace pain.

It’s just not as hot without biting, scratching, and spanking, involved.